


...and the way you treat them is what they become

by queenofthefallenfics



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Angst, Character Study, Complicated Relationships, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Trust, Not A Fix-It, One Shot, Pre-Canon, Wakes & Funerals, no beta we die like men, this is . . . objectively insane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29600664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthefallenfics/pseuds/queenofthefallenfics
Summary: “No.”His voice was raspy and ruined, like he had spent the previous night screaming or throwing up or both. Bertrand could smell his rancid breath from where he stood, but it wasn’t the worst thing he ever smelt and he wasn’t about to judge Olaf for it. Not when, given his pale face and bloodshot eyes, he had spent the night before, or many nights before, in a bad condition.“Tell Jacques, ‘No,’” Olaf added. “I’m not coming back.”
Relationships: Beatrice Baudelaire & Count Olaf, Beatrice Baudelaire/Lemony Snicket (Past), Bertrand Baudelaire & Count Olaf, Count Olaf/Esmé Squalor (implied), Count Olaf/Kit Snicket (past)
Kudos: 6





	...and the way you treat them is what they become

**Author's Note:**

> "The way you see people is the way you treat them, ..." ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
> 
> I think . . . their relationship would be . . . interesting. Please bear with me. I'm going through an ASOUE phase right now, but just with the Netflix show. I haven't read the original series in years and I didn't read the extra bits and pieces, so if anyone is OOC, that's why.
> 
> Also, I would think that the SBG would be much younger when the final schism happened, when Olaf's dad died, when Lemony and Beatrice broke up for some reason. Like . . . I don't know, it seems right. Therefore, picture everyone to be between 18 - 25. It don't, like officially, make them younger, but it really hits better if you imagine them to be younger.

By the time the wind picked up, the graveyard was empty except for three people.

One of them stood in front of a newly dug grave.

One of them stood a few feet away from the newly dug grave.

One of them stood under a tree, many feet away from the newly dug grave.

Bertrand took a breath and started to walk towards Olaf. He didn’t know what to say, just that a) he’d figure something out before he would finish his walk and b) nothing he could come up with would be enough. An apology could never wipe away what had been done. No defense or declaration, no quote or quip, no platitude or promise would be enough. In all honesty, he shouldn’t be within a million miles of Olaf. Beatrice tried to talk him out of it, Frank tried to talk him out of it, even Josephine tried to talk him out of it.

But Bertrand was determined to go.

Of course, he didn’t know that Esme would be there with her platinum blonde hair and her platinum heels and her platinum nails. He doubted that there would be poison in them, like it was rumored, but he wouldn’t put it past her. He heard of how angry she had been that night, how she screamed and screamed.

Olaf, in turn, said one word, then was quiet.

_“He just said ‘You,’ then he tried to chase after Lemony, and Beatrice, but he wasn’t quite fast enough. He just . . . vanished like a flame but lingered like smoke.”_

Kit’s analogy was problematic, in more ways than one, but also informative. And also worrisome.

If Olaf was so upset by what happened to his father, the likelihood of him joining the firestarters was even bigger. And where Olaf went, so would Esme. And if those two went, Georgina and Ernest would leave as well.

VFD couldn’t afford to lose a single volunteer, not these days. Fires were getting bigger and bigger, more popular and more dangerous. Bertrand knew that the only reason he was really allowed to go was because Jacques hoped he could sway Olaf to retirement or even back to their side. Jacques, the best and most noble of their generation, knew that if there was anyone who could sway Olaf, it was Bertrand. Before, Jacques would have urged his sister to go, but Olaf accused their brother of killing his father.

So, simply put, no Snicket would be safe around Olaf for a good while still.

When he got within striking distance, Esme stepped forward, her pretty face contorted into a ferocious fury, twisting it something awful. “You have some nerve coming here,” she hissed. “After what—”

“I’m not here to have this conversation with you, Esme,” Bertrand interrupted her, forgoing his manners for once. Her face twisted even further as he continued: “If you want to talk about the sugar bowl, reach out to Ja—someone else. I’m not here on volunteer business.”

“Then why are you here?” she questioned, her face screwing up in confusion. Bertrand gave Esme a tired look and walked past her.

He was, admittedly, more than a little annoyed that she was so shocked he would be there. Yes, he and Olaf weren’t the closest but that didn’t mean that he was going to let his friend suffer in silence. Because that’s who Olaf was—a friend. Annoying and troublesome and apathetic on the best days, yes, but still a friend. Olaf was the one he shared new poems with and Olaf went to him when he needed help with Shakespeare. Their relationship wasn’t like Kit and Olaf’s, Bertrand’s and Beatrice’s, Bertrand’s and Frank’s, or even Olaf and Jacques’, but it didn’t mean it was weaker, it was just different.

By the time that Bertrand got to Olaf’s side, he was ashamed to say that he still hadn’t come up with anything to say.

He wasn’t silver-tongued, but he was good at thinking on his feet. Yet this time, his mind failed him, failed his friend. So, hoping Olaf would see his sincerity, Bertrand said all he could think to say:

“I am truly sorry.”

Olaf didn’t immediately fly into a rage, which was a good sign.

Bertrand’s apology hung in the space between them for a good few minutes before Olaf broke the silence.

“No.”

His voice was raspy and ruined, like he had spent the previous night screaming or throwing up or both. Bertrand could smell his rancid breath from where he stood, but it wasn’t the worst thing he ever smelt and he wasn’t about to judge Olaf for it. Not when, given his pale face and bloodshot eyes, he had spent the night before, or many nights before, in a bad condition.

Fighting down the urge to suggest that Olaf eat or drink something, Bertrand tried to focus on what he could mean. Maybe he didn’t think Bertrand was sincere? A cold hand gripped the back of his neck and he hurried to speak. “I don’t—I mean—”

“Tell Jacques, ‘No,’” Olaf added. “I’m not coming back.”

Bertrand pressed his lips together, recognizing how dire the situation truly was.

Rarely did Olaf outright say what he felt or meant. Oftentimes, he’d mutter or moan under his breath, glowering when ordered to speak up before excusing away what he said. When he did have a complaint, he often buried it around layers of useless comments and opinions, none of which were actually useful. Bertrand always found it amusing when Olaf complained like that, much to the displeasure of everyone else. He found it funny because if Olaf really wanted to change something or do something different, he would, usually without ever telling anyone.

Olaf didn’t need or want anyone’s permission, not ever. 

A part of Bertrand wanted to fight against what he was saying. To cajole and convince him to come back where Dewey and Kit and Ike would help him and give him the support that he needed. He knew that Jacques and Beatrice would have no problem taking him in by force, Esme aside. But . . . 

The other part of Bertrand knew better. He knew that Olaf was right for leaving, that Frank was right to be disillusioned with VFD. The world was turning crueller and crueller and their organization seemed to have no problems keeping up.

A few years ago, none of them would have ever been able to have such easy access to Venomous Flying Darts, after all. It had been so easy for Bertrand to get his hands on some, he wasn’t surprised to hear that Esme had secreted some of her own as well. He knew from doing paperwork with Jacques that more and more volunteers were asking for more and more resources that they were hurrying to supply. 

Bertrand also knew that, no matter what their volunteers asked of them, their coffers always stayed full.

Bertrand was not in the habit of ignoring truths. He preferred to find them out, hide them away, compartmentalize that knowledge, and pretend like it didn’t keep him awake at night. However, Bertrand was _adamant_ about not finding out how exactly VFD was able to stay afloat. He could leave that moral ambiguity to Jacques and Dewey.

“There’s nothing I could say to convince you otherwise, is there?” He couldn’t help the tired tone, the wry tone, the dejected tone. It was easy to feel so worn out these days.

That was the wrong thing to say.

Olaf whirled around and grabbed onto his biceps with a deceptively strong grip. His eyes, no longer dulled by alcohol and a hangover, were bright and shiny, manic, even. If it wasn’t so chilly outside, Bertrand would have bet his left foot that Olaf would have been flushed as well. This close, Bertrand saw that his brows were unplucked, that it was growing into the trademark unibrow his father had—a part of Bertrand wondered if it was a tribute to his father or to spite VFD.

“Tell me the truth: where is Lemony? Where is he?”

In that moment, madness tinged Olaf’s tone better than he ever could pull off during school when he wormed his way into the role of Macbeth.

It broke Bertrand’s heart.

Bertrand didn’t try to squirm his way out of Olaf’s grasp, it wouldn’t accomplish anything. Besides, he had nothing to hide from the grieving man. He didn’t know where Lemony was and told him as much. It hurt to see the light fade from Olaf’s eyes, to see them turn dark and dull again. Olaf let go of him and turned back to the grave.

“He didn’t want me to become an actor,” Olaf said. “He wanted me to work with him.”

“You’re a good actor, Olaf,” Bertrand insisted.

Olaf was a lot of things, but not dejected. Delusional, dangerous, distracting, yes, but not dejected. Yet the laugh that forced its way out of the young Count’s throat was plenty dejected. “If I am so good, why is he there?” He paused for a moment and looked over to Bertrand, a fascinating combination of loathing (for himself) and anger (for Bertrand, for VFD) in his eyes. “Why are _you_ here?”

Bertrand didn’t know what to say. Actually, that was a lie. Bertrand knew what to say. He knew what he should say, what he could say, what he ought to say, what he needed to say, what he wanted to say. But nothing that could come from his lips would help Olaf.

But he could try.

“Because you’re my friend—” Olaf’s snort interrupted him but didn’t discourage him. “Because you’re my friend and you’re hurting and I didn’t want—”

“Why am I hurting?” It would have hurt less if Olaf screamed in his face, even with his breath strong enough to make Bertrand’s eyelashes fall off and dance to the ground. “Why am I hurting?”

Bertrand didn’t like feeling helpless. It was an ugly feeling, a useless feeling. After all his training, after everything he learned, he should _never_ feel helpless. It was embarrassing and pathetic and _exactly_ how he felt right now.

“I want to help you, Olaf,” Bertrand told him, the truth pushing itself to the surface so hard his heart hurt. “Please, let me help you. You can come back with me and—”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

Olaf’s whisper cut him off and, for the hundredth time, Bertrand was reminded of their relationship. Of how strange it was for _Bertrand_ to be friends with _Olaf_. Of how differently they conducted themselves. Of how vast the crevice that separated them was, how small and weak the bridge that linked them together was. He never heard Olaf complain about anything serious, but if Olaf had started complaining about how everyone behaved around him, how they treated him . . . Bertrand wouldn’t be surprised.

“I _do_ get it, or well, I understand it, but Olaf, there’s another way. You don’t have to do this,” Bertrand said, his tone a touch too desperate to call it cajoling.

“It’s easy for you to say,” Olaf said, shoulders working their way up to his ears. “You make a mistake and everyone helps you. I make a mistake and people aren’t the slightest bit surprised.”

“We can change that. You and me, just like before. We’ll work through this together,” Bertrand said, reaching out to grab him. Olaf leaned away from him ever-so-slightly and Bertrand let his hand fall through the space between them.

_Olaf had never done that before._

A strong gust of wind came by, right on time to water Bertrand’s eyes.

“You should leave, Bertrand. My taxi will be coming along soon.”

Bertrand wished he had a knife to give Olaf so that the new orphan could cut his chest open, take his heart out, and stomp on it. That would hurt less than his proclamation.

When Olaf turned to look at him, his eyes were dark and determined, no longer dulled by grief. Sharper than a knife and twice as cutting, Olaf’s expression was fixed. Bertrand tried to see something of his old friend left, maybe some clue in the corner of his mouth or the bags under his eyes but saw nothing.

Bertrand grit his teeth together.

Again, helpless.

He wasn’t angry that he failed the “mission” Jacques assigned him, though Olaf would undoubtedly think that. He was angry that he failed his friend. Or whatever Olaf was to him now.

But there was nothing left to be said, nothing that _could_ be said.

So Bertrand reached into his coat pocket, ignoring Olaf’s hiss, and placed a small bouquet of flowers at the edge of Olaf’s father’s grave. He saw the shocked look on Olaf’s face and, impulsive for once, reached over and hugged him. Olaf, to no one’s surprise, didn’t hug back; he never did. He just stood there, stiff as a board, until Bertrand let go.

Both of them pretended not to see the redness of each other’s eyes.

“If you ever want help, I will give it to you,” Bertrand promised. He hated making grandiose vows—he left that to Lemony, but in that instant, he knew it was the right thing. With this new chapter of life Olaf was insisting on embarking, true friends would be in short supply. If Bertrand was going to be a card in his short stack, he’d make sure to be a damn good ace.

(It was also gratifying to see the guilt flash across Olaf’s face for a moment—Bertrand _knew_ that his decision wasn’t as easy as he wanted it to seem.)

Then Bertrand left the graveyard.

* * *

He walked until his feet hurt, then walked a bit more. When he got back to his rented room and closed the door, he let his head rest against the sturdy wood of it, feeling the eyehold cool his windburnt cheek. When he stepped away from the door, Bertrand ignored the few tears that slipped out of his eyes and took off his shoes. For a moment, he was pleased to see blood on his feet.

Savagely, he thought _Good, my promise needed blood to seal it_ then shook the notion from his head.

It would make Olaf laugh, glad at making him dramatic for once. But it was too late for Olaf’s laughter and too late for his tears and too late for their relationship. So Bertrand left his shoes by the door, forwent his slippers, and walked to the bathroom, leaving bloody footprints behind.

After his feet were cleaned and bandaged, he went to the small kitchenette and finally acknowledged his visitor. “I only have chicken noodle soup, if you’re okay with that.”

Standing up from the armchair in the corner of the room, Beatrice nodded. While he busied himself with heating up the soup and preparing the dishware, Beatrice sat down at the table with room for one-and-a-half people, a triangle shaped thing that was crammed into another corner. When he brought the bowls over, Beatrice gave him a grateful smile.

He tried not to think about how long she was waiting for him, about _why_ she would be waiting for him. He just focused on the soup, the bland but hot meal warming him up, all the way down to his injured feet. It was only when he was scraping the bottom of his bowl did Bertrand speak up.

“He wanted me to tell him where Lemony was,” Bertand told Beatrice, voice so monotonous that not a single volunteer would find a fault. Beatrice started and went to reply when he continued: “He wanted me to tell him where his father’s murderer was.”

Beatrice paled.

“I didn’t tell him, if you’re wondering.”

“How—how did you—”

“I spent days and days working with Lemony to perfect the boy’s aim,” he reminded her. “He still can’t hit the broadside of a barn. Maybe in a few years, but not now. He certainly wouldn’t be able to hit an artery with the precision required for the venom to work.”

Beatrice put her spoon down. Her hand was as still as ever. Bertrand wondered if it was just as still that night. Looking into her brown eyes, seeing determination and stubbornness carved into every line on her too-young face, he would bet his left foot it was.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she admitted after a moment.

“Nothing,” Bertrand said, standing up to take away their bowls and spoons. “I don’t want to know any more than I already know.”

“Bertrand, you can’t—”

“I am very serious,” Bertrand interrupted. _Interrupting two women in one day? For shame, Bertrand_. “If you tell me anything else, I won’t know how to forgive you, Beatrice. So don’t tell me anything. If you want to unburden yourself, speak to Jacques or Josephine; they’ll be able to keep up with you. But not me, I can’t.” He put the bowls in the sink and braced himself against it, staring down at his warped reflection in silver. “I won’t.”

There was silence. It was quiet for so long that Bertrand was able to clean the dishes and the now-cooled pot. Then she finally spoke up: “I didn’t realize this would be that hard for you.”

Bertrand turned around, putting the towel on his shoulder with a jauntiness he didn’t feel. He huffed out a laugh and gave the barest approximation of a smile. “Why wouldn’t it be? One of our oldest friends just lost his father because of the actions of another friend. Perhaps you may consider me a fool for doubting, but, well, I’m no Job. Faith isn’t my strength.”

Beatrice was speechless. And rightfully so.

It was the first time he had expressed a sliver of doubt to anyone but Dewey.

The surprise vanished from Beatrice’s face as it hardened. Bertrand wondered what was going through her mind. If she was questioning his decision to visit Olaf; if she was wondering if he was planning on leaving as well; if she was planning on telling others about what he said; if she was wanting to know what he meant; if she was having similar thoughts running through her head at the moment. If she could empathize.

After a few moments, she forced out, “You shouldn’t say that. Anyone could hear you.”

Bertrand looked away for a moment, then smiled. “Thank you for the reminder, Beatrice. That was good advice; I’ll consider us even now.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Beatrice’s flinch was so subtle and careful it almost looked like a blink. She nodded through it, turning her flinch into something it wasn’t. Then, she stood up, brushing dust off her skirt. Without another word, she glided out of the room, taking care to silently close his window. After a moment, he turned to look out the window, seeing the fire escape shake minutely as she made her way down. Bertrand went to the windowsill and rolled down the shutters, then pulled the curtains across. With that done, he went into his room and took out his notepad, carefully writing up a concisely coded report.

When Bertrand finished it, he didn’t bother to set an alarm; he knew he wouldn’t be asleep long.

**Author's Note:**

> In my writing class right now, we're focusing on dialogue and on subtext, so hopefully there were a few lines here where y'all were like 'wait, do you mean 'x' or 'y'?' because that would be amazing.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this!
> 
> (And if anyone's curious, I am definitely imagining Robert Pattinson's Cedric Diggory, but maybe a bit darker haired?, as Bertrand.)


End file.
